


On Being Human

by kungfunurse



Category: Batman (Comics), Superman (Comics), Superman/Batman (Comics)
Genre: Comfort/Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-09
Updated: 2017-01-09
Packaged: 2018-09-15 22:13:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,519
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9259685
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kungfunurse/pseuds/kungfunurse
Summary: Batman doesn't need anyone, ever. Except when a case goes horribly wrong and he's forced to come to terms with his own fallibility.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I'm transferring some old stories from my LJ to preserve them as time-capsules of writing whimsey. There's no specific movie-verse or comic-verse to worry about continuity. Enjoy!

Superman peered into the thick, pre-dawn air that lay over Gotham like the haze of an old woman’s perfume. He never liked coming here, was just as glad that Batman had long ago banished him and all his brightly colored kind from the city below. And yet, something in Batman’s bitter tone of voice, or the way his shoulders slumped just the tiniest bit before turning and viciously berating Green Lantern… something told Superman that he was needed here. Tonight, more than any other night. 

Batman was always remote and acerbic with the League, being surrounded by meta-humans made him… uncomfortable. In a lesser man it would be fear, Clark supposed, but with Batman it was channeled into a wary watchfulness and a tendency towards harshness. Batman tolerated the League the way most people tolerated guns - impossible to get rid of and, possibly, somewhat useful. 

But this unbridled contempt and disgust was not just destructive, but tactically unwise, and therefore as unlike Batman as anything Clark had ever seen. So he casually flew past the early warning sensors outside the Cave, making no effort to hide his approach. Get ready for me, Bruce. Whatever agenda you have, whatever demon you’ve got trapped up in your twisty mind, I’m here to pull it out of you. Get ready.

*_*_*_*

Bruce heard the alarm and stilled, black gloved fingers frozen over the keys in front of him. 

No, not now, he wasn't ready yet. Bruce tried to blank his mind, to bring his analytical focus to bear, but shame burned low in his gut and twisted at his heart. His hand curled into harsh shapes, yearning to tear and claw itself, to rip small bits out of his chest until the shame dripped out on the floor and pooled at his feet.

If Superman was here, now, then Clark had seen the guilt. The horrifying failure. The pain of it cramped in his guts and made him want to scream in despair. That those eyes, perfectly blameless eyes should be turned on him…

A second voice raged in a blaze of fury: And what the hell did Superman know of failure? What did he know of frailty, of, of this? This betrayal of self, of purpose, of life? The smug, self-righteous bastard. Here! To smile his superior smile and, and…

Bruce snarled in pain and leapt out of his chair, the chittering memory of his shame tormenting him. 

A little body, ice white and dead in the snow. 

‘Incompetent’ he snarled at himself. ‘Worthless, incompetent, useless’ the raging voice attacked. And still the first voice sobbed, ‘I made a mistake, a mistake! Oh god, I think I killed her. I missed something. I wasn’t perfect, I missed it, I forgot, I forgot!’ The voice wailed into his mind, seeking someone kind of absolution, but all Bruce felt was the misery twisting tighter inside him till he choked on it. He’d been so supremely arrogant, barring the help of any meta-humans in his city. He was the Batman, and it didn’t matter how many hours he’d worked, how intense the brainpower, how numbing the terror and horror of his world. He didn’t need help, never had needed it, never missed a clue, never forgot a detail, never forgot, never forgot…

…until he did.

Forgot! Forgot that the woman had three daughters, not two. No matter that he’d been beaten and shot at by Dilone’s men. No matter that it had been over twelve hours in the searing cold night. One daughter on the enforcer’s arm, second running the till at the counter, and the third one at home! Three daughters, three! 

‘Only two now’ a dark little voice of soulless hate whispered to him. See, now there’s two, only two.’ And Bruce wrapped his arms tightly around his knees and shivered in the dark corner he’d made.

*_*_*_*

Clark landed lightly on the cave floor, opening himself to the quiet gloom. Under the humming of the great computers and the flickering muttering of the bats he knew that somewhere must lie a breath, a heartbeat, a scent or taste of the man he’d come to find. But he also knew from long, sometimes painful experience that Bruce wouldn’t be found until he chose, and so Clark wandered quietly into the heart of the sanctum, up the steps to the console, and towards the chair left askew in front of it. 

The place seemed barren and lonely without Bruce’s intense personality to fill it, and Clark reflected with sad humor that he and the cave had that in common. How often had he longed for some hint of welcome from Bruce, longed to be closer, to share in his sorrows and joys? Lonely, Rao he was so lonely. His heart ached with it, but he couldn’t persuade it to find happiness with anyone else. ‘Bruce’, it whispered to him when he dreamed of a companion. ‘Only Bruce.’

And so he kept coming here, despite Batman’s surly moods and Superman’s instructions to stay away. He battled Batman’s cynicism with compassion, and his own disappointment with humor. As far as he knew, he was the only person who had so deliberately worked his way into Bruce’s grudging acceptance, and he was fiercely proud of what little he’d been given.

He was at the top of the dais, now, and a faint taste of bitter musk lingered on the air, a hint of salt making his salivary glands burn. Clark knew that Bruce had been here, just here, bare moments earlier. Faint wisps of silvery heat were eddying into nothing from the chair, and Clark sat there to keep the ghosts of warmth from leaving entirely. Too many ghosts in this place, he knew. Too many ghosts and all of them alone in their vast, empty despair. 

Maybe it was time to jostle their elbows a little. Clark quirked a lip and thumped his boots up on the console’s edge. 

Come and get me.

*_*_*

Bruce came back to himself and watched Clark’s red boots tap against each other while the alien hummed to himself. He readied himself to swoop down on the man, to force him out of his home and reassert the respect, the dominance that he’d always demanded. Even as he braced to stand, though, memory stabbed at him.

Gary Lemar was an up and coming defense lawyer who specialized in criminal law. He’d come to Dilone’s attention, and the Batman’s, about a year ago. Lemar and Dilone began a cautious hand-in-glove affair; Dilone coming to rely more and more on Lemar’s legal acumen. Batman had been watching the partnership for some time, trying to gauge the best way to use it for his own ends. He wasn’t above blackmailing the odd civil servant in order to have reliable eyes and ears inside the mob.

A call at dawn from the lawyer, and Batman was dogging Dilone’s steps. One of his enforcers was trying to carve a piece for himself out of Dilone’s territory and a meet had been arranged by the mob boss to… curb that impulse. The whole thing could turn bloody in a minute and there were innocents employed by both sides that wouldn’t know enough to duck and run. Hour after hour had passed as Batman watched from a nearby perch, ignoring his body as it grew more sluggish in the sleeting cold. It wasn’t important - nothing was but learning when and where the meet would happen. And so, when random chance had led a bored enforcer to look out the window and spot a flap of his cape in the wind, he had been too cold, too slow, to keep the bullets from pummeling him off his ledge. He’d gone crashing down to street level and barely avoided breaking all his ribs on a dumpster along the way.

‘Superman doesn’t get cold, or sluggish’, the soulless voice of hate whispered, ‘or lose his balance when he’s shot. Too bad that little girl didn’t live in Metropolis. Too bad she didn’t have Superman, wasn’t alive to call for help, was dead and frozen because Superman doesn’t come to Gotham, doesn’t come because of you, didn’t come, no one came and-‘ 

Enough! He raged to himself. His city! His home and how dare that red booted freak send him into hiding like this? With liquid grace he uncoiled from his crouch and swept towards Clark, fury and shame and an animal need to be left alone roiling in his gut. 

“What the hell are you doing here!” he spat as he strode up the steps. He knew all of Clark’s soft spots, all the words and emotions to make even Superman flinch. How dare he come here and lounge in Bruce’s chair and browse through…

Bruce’s steps faltered and a wave of nausea stole his speech. Clark had turned at his approach and was holding the photographic evidence of Bruce’s failure with a look of confusion and pity in his eyes.

*_*_*

Clark was fingering the photos Bruce had left behind when he felt the shadows around him swell with emotion. Each breath seemed heavier than the last, and he wasn’t surprised when moments later a dark form appeared from the gloom, long strides eating up the steps between them. Bruce had a mad-on that looked truly epic in proportion, and Clark steeled himself for the collision when Bruce just… stopped. Suddenly he wasn’t the Dark Knight come to rain vengeance down, but looked, well he looked lost, actually. Lost and a little scared. 

“Is this what it’s been about?” Clark asked gently, holding out the picture of a young woman, dead in the snow.

Bruce snatched the photo away, fury suddenly back on his face. “Leave. Get out! I don’t need your pity. You don’t understand, not about this or any of it. Now get out.”

“Bruce,” he tried, standing and putting everything he felt into his face, his voice. “You don’t need to go through this alone. We’ve all -“

“You’ve nothing!” Bruce hissed, inches away from Clark’s face, spitting venom. “You’ve never felt the pain of a dead girl in your arms and known that if you’d been ten minutes earlier that she’d still be alive. You’ve never felt your body fail you for no reason but that it was cold and tired. You don’t understand anything. You couldn’t… it’s a human thing.”

“Go to hell, Bruce,” Clark snapped back, suddenly sick of this game. “I came here to see what the hell crawled up your ass, you cranky bastard. I came to help! Why do you always do this to me? Why -“

Oh. Lightning quick thoughts flickered behind his eyes and Clark blinked, putting together the pattern of light and shadows that was Bruce. Bruce was never straightforward, even with a frontal attack. This sudden approach, the insults… Clark glanced at the photo still held gently in Bruce’s gloved hand.

“I’m not here to judge you. Bruce! Listen to me, it’s not your fault!”

Rage, shame, misery screamed out of Bruce’s eyes but his voice was cold and choked. “I said get out!”

“No.”

“I said -“

“No! I’m not leaving you to, to wallow like this! It’s not your fault she’s dead, Bruce.”

“You weren’t there,” he snarled, stepping closer and fisting his free hand in Clark’s uniform. “You have no idea -“

Clark put his hand over Bruce’s, cradling the fist to his chest. “I wasn’t there. But I know you Bruce, I know you did everything you could for her.”

“You know nothing!” he screamed into Clark’s face, the wave finally breaking over them. “Dead! She’s dead because of me!” Bruce shoved past Clark, frantically sifting through the documents and photos on his desk. “I never thought he’d do it. I didn’t factor in what he’d do with a hostage because I never considered, damn it I made a mistake!” He spun to face Clark, shaking a handful of crumpled papers, eyes wild and lost. “Three daughters! She had three, not two! And I, I…”

Clark gently pried the papers free and gently, carefully smoothed them out on the desk. Bruce watched helplessly as that great head bent and scanned the evidence of his failure, a lock of hair falling in his face. Bruce closed his eyes, bracing himself for the final verdict, the look of contempt that had to follow.

“Did you shoot her?”

The question jarred his eyes open.

“Did you pick up a gun and put these holes in her? Did you take aim and fire and fill her body with bullets -“

“No! God no, Clark what the hell are you talking about?”

“No,” Clark breathed the word, hands braced on either side of the photo. Then he looked up, blue eyes clear and earnest. “No Bruce, you didn’t.”

Not this easy, it wasn’t this easy. “Clark she’s dead, Someone has to take the blame, someone has to be responsible, someone has to care that she’s… that she’s…”

Finally Bruce trailed off, compassion pouring off of Clark like heat. A sigh, then another and Bruce worked one numb hand under his mask, pulling it free.

“You can’t stop every death, Bruce. No one can.”

“I know,” he replied softly, suddenly bone tired.

Clark tried again. “Not every tragedy in this city is your personal cross to bear. You can’t let it eat you up like this. You can’t!”

“Clark, I know.” he sighed again, dropping into the chair with the weight of his exhaustion. “It’s just -“

“You care.” Clark murmured, smiling slightly, still so close, so warm. 

“Yes,” Bruce breathed, the tight clench of shame and guilt finally releasing. “I care.”

“I know.”

“Yes,” Bruce agreed faintly, sounding puzzled. “You do know, don’t you?”

Clark debated the morality of taking advantage of Bruce’s exhaustion, then thought “The hell with it,” and lifted him out of the chair. “C’mon Bruce, Alfred would have my hide if I left you down here all night.”

Bruce opened his mouth, thought about protesting, but his emotional catharsis had left him drained and dumb. Besides, just for a minute, just for now while Clark’s arm was around his waist and supporting him up the steps to the manor, he found that he didn’t hurt and was content to let that continue. 

He quietly assisted Clark to remove his armor, stripping off his gloves and boots, touching a hand here and brushing fingers there as they gently peeled away his walls. It was such a blessing just to breath, to sigh and lay back in his bed, tears slipping freely down his cheeks as Clark stroked his hair.

Hours later he woke, eyes stiff and grainy from dried tears to find Clark asleep on the wide bed, still reaching towards him. Clark’s cape was rumpled up under him and one red-booted foot was hanging off the side. Bruce smiled, so tenderly that he felt his heart might tear open, and slipped two fingers into Clark’s open palm. Then he slid back into sleep, knowing that Clark would stay to chase the shadows away.


End file.
